


corvus oculum corvi non eruit

by orphan_account



Category: Newsies - All Media Types
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Criminals, Crimes & Criminals, Fake Newsies, M/M, i am.............so goddamn excited, this is gonna be. wild
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2019-06-17 06:46:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15455643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “Stop twitching,” Jack hisses through his signature Unthreatening Golden Boy smile. “You’re makin’ us look nervous.”Racetrack laughs apprehensively, although admittedly it sounds more like a chicken being stepped on. “Yeah, well, I’m fuckin’ nervous! You didn’t tell me he was my type! He could totally rip my arms off and not even give a shit! For some reason that’s only makin’ him more attractive to me!”Jack sends him a plea to shut up with his eyes.“Oh,come on.I know you’re married now ‘n whatever but youroptic nerves still work.”Race says bitterly, kneading the heels of his hands into his eyes. “God, I might actually have to fuck him now. Goddammit.”Jack drops the façade completely and sighs that sigh of his like Race is being totally unreasonable. (Which! He’s not!) “If I have to pay you not to sleep with Spot Conlon, I’ll do it.”“You think he’d rip my arms off in the sack?” Race says worriedly.Or, Jack Kelly leads a very powerful gang, and so does Spot Conlon, and Racetrack Higgins has a bit of a crisis.PREVIOUS TITLE: no / loyalties among thieves





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> heyo heyo here at Platinum Numbered we only write gang au fics so heres the newsies edition!!!!!
> 
> im insanely excited to write smth multi chaptered, bc i havent done it it a while!!! im not very used to it, so pls bear with me while i struggle through trying to write appropriately long chapters on fucking time. expect a VERY inconsistent update schedule, but know im trying real hard!!!!
> 
> i had a great time writing this and i hope yall enjoy it as much as i enjoy this dumbass au!!
> 
> COMMENT. PLEASE. every person who leaves Just Kudos is a coward who brings dishonor to their family name
> 
> (im only kind of kidding but still. comment pls i thrive on feedback)
> 
> ill put a trigger warning at the beginning of every chapter for specific instances, but this fic will for sure eventually contain some graphic violence !!! so stay safe yall !!!

“So, the job I’m about to offer you is incredibly important,” Jack says, immediately turning around in his giant-ass office chair as Racetrack enters the ridiculously lush room.

 

Okay, Race loves Jack. He really does. He’s kind, with one of the biggest hearts Race has ever seen. Even though he hasn’t heard from him in a while, he’d still trust him with his life, no questions asked. But. Come on.

 

It’s like walking into a Bond villain’s office, complete with the dramatic one-eighty. The room’s drenched in black and gold; it’s furnished with an enormous black wood desk, a towering liquor cabinet gleaming amber with whiskey, and a wall of screens showcasing security footage on the outside of their building in fuzzy grayscale. Just the fucking alcohol probably costs more than most of Race’s internal organs.

 

God, he  _ so _ wants to steal something.

 

“Gettin’ right into it, huh?” Race says carefully, his fingers involuntarily starting to twitch. Pretty much everything in this stupid room is gold-plated, from the three-foot picture frames to the inkwells (honest to god). Nothing’s pocket-sized or within subtle arm’s reach, though. Damn. “No hello for me?”

 

Jack smiles as if he knows exactly what Race is thinking. He probably does, actually, considering how long they’ve known each other. “Hey, Racer,” he says warmly. “Been a second.”

 

“Hello to you too, big shot,” Race replies, pulling back the ornate wooden chair in front of the enormous desk. “Shoulda known better than to let me in here, huh?”

 

Jack’s smile gets bigger, fonder, and he stands up and comes around the side of his desk. “C’mere, you little miscreant.” He pulls Racetrack into a hug before he can sit down.

 

Admittedly, it’s really nice. Jack’s great at a number of things, and hugging’s definitely on that list. Race presses the grin tugging at his lips into one of Jack’s broad shoulders. “Look at you, all married ‘n shit!” Race says earnestly, pulling back and grabbing Jack’s hand to inspect the ring. It’s delicate and ornate, and the only silver thing Race can see in the room, save for the laptop on Jack’s desk. Davey’s doing for sure.

 

Jack laughs, “Don’t rob me, but yep. Davey got the day we met engraved on it, exact time ‘n all. Heard it from Albert, huh?”

 

“Yeah. Davey did always have a flair for the dramatic, didn’t he,” Race comments, giving Jack his hand back and sitting down. “So! Important job. That will hopefully pay well.”

 

“Yeah, yeah. Right,” Jack says, pulling his own chair back and sitting as well, suddenly sobering. “So.” He seems to immediately switch from Race’s friend to his boss, even though he isn’t. Technically. “I’m assumin’ you know Spot Conlon?”

 

Race blanches. “Oh,  _ Christ, _ J, what did you do?”

 

Yeah, Racetrack certainly does know Spot Conlon. If Jack’s the leader of the most powerful gang in the city, Spot’s in, like, one-and-one-fourth place. Not at all far behind. Honestly, the main difference is that Conlon’s methods are brutal and messy, while Jack’s are more sophisticated and efficient and--clean, frankly. Conlon’s the type to leave bodies in conspicuous locations for intimidation, while Jack’s thing is at least putting a tarp under it or something.

 

Race has personally never seen him, not even from afar, but it’s said that if you see his face, he’s only letting you because he knows you’ll be dead before you get to tell anyone what he looks like. Which is admittedly stupid and campy, but his Brooklyn Boys are big enough that they could probably use Race as a toothpick if they were so inclined. So! Racetrack tends not to fuck with Spot Conlon or his gang in general.

 

“I didn’t do anything! Swear on my life,” Jack says, eyes wide. “But.” A slow smile makes its way across his face, and he seems to be picturing something, which is never good. “I’m tryin’ to.”

 

“Jacqueline Whateveryourmiddlenameis Kelly,” Race says sternly. “Rule number one: don’t mess with Brooklyn! We know this!”

 

Jack scowls half-heartedly at him. “I’m not messin’ with Brooklyn. No. God, Whaddaya take me for, Racey?” Race snorts. Jack continues, “No, I’m tryin’ to collaborate.” His eyes get that--that fuckin’ spark again. “Could make somethin’ great. Top two gangs in Los Santos? Heistin’ together?” Jack laughs his Santa Fe-Davey-lots-of-money laugh. “Make the police run tails between their legs first sight of us.”

 

Race’s eyebrows nearly reach his hairline.

 

A heist with Fake Brooklyn. That’s power right there. Two kings and their best knights teaming up to scare the rich and get richer like some sort of cracked Camelot, making jesters out of the LSPD and looking good while they do it. Race’d like to see that.

 

He doesn’t say that, though. “You know I’m not a heists guy,” he decides on saying carefully. “So. What do you need me for?”

 

Jack looks a bit sheepish at that. “See, uh,” he starts, “you’re kind of his. Well.”

 

“His what,” Race deadpans.

 

Jack scratches the back of his neck. It’s sort of funny to see Jack Kelly, leader of Fake Manhattan, reduced to an apologetic mess. “You’re, uh. His type? And I don’t know if he’ll agree to this without a little convincing, so...”

 

Race gives him the most straight-faced look he can muster.

 

“Listen, okay--”

 

“You’re tellin’ me you want me to go with you to some--nondescript warehouse in the heart of the city,” Racetrack interrupts, “with no one else but you, so I can bat my eyes at several large, terrifying men, and offer my body to the one who’d be very bad to piss off and risk startin’ a massive turf war with?”

 

Jack flushes. “It’s--okay, look, you don’t actually have to  _ bang _ him--”

 

The slow, slow grin that spreads across Race’s face cuts him off. “Oh, no need to fret, J. I’m in.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter sure does exist after 37485 years!!!!!! wow
> 
> which I AM SO SORRY FOR YOU GUYS,, ITS BEEN ALMOST A YEAR AND THATS SO EMBARRASSING
> 
> multi chaptered things are hard for me!!! but ive been working out where i want this fic to go, and it turns out people like it as much as i do!!! which is fuckin awesome you guys seriously <333
> 
> enjoy this chapter n comment some predictions!!! its been a LONG FUCKING TIME COMING anyhow

“D’you think he’s hot?” Race asks idly, sipping his coffee.

 

Davey blinks at him. “Do I think. That Spot Conlon,” he repeats, deadpan. “Is hot.”

 

“Well, yeah!” Race exclaims. “I mean, I'm the one who’s gotta make him hard for my ass so he says yes to this whole heist thing. I can’t do that if he ain’t hot.”

 

He’s in the Kelly-Jacobs’ kitchen, elbows on the table, waiting for the rest of the crew's main players to show up and draft loose heist plans. Jack's out, presumably either buying them breakfast or committing several felonies, but Davey’s here, still dressed to the nines even though it’s ten in the morning on a Thursday, and this is his kitchen. Race, personally, would fucking  _ never in a million years _ make a habit of wearing suits for fun, but Davey rocks ‘em, that’s for sure.

 

“Well,” Davey continues archly, pressing his teabag against the side of his mug with his spoon. “You know I literally am  _ married, _ and I don't really make a habit of cheating on my husband.”

 

Race scrunches his nose. “Okay, didn't know you were the leader of the fuckin’ anti-fun coalition. Apologies, President Fun-Ruiner.”

 

Davey rolls his eyes so hard Race nearly teeters in his chair. “Sorry for bein’ faithful.”

 

_ “Sorry for bein’ faithful,” _ Race parrots back. “It's not about that! I just wanted to know if he was hot. Being married don’t magically take away your eyesight. I keep tellin’ you guys this.”

 

Davey gets that secret smile on his face, the infuriating _ I-know-something-you-don't-know _ one. “I think Spot Conlon’s attractiveness is for me to know and you to find out, although--well, maybe I shouldn’t.”

 

Race narrows his eyes. There’s the culmination of Davey’s  _ I-know-something-you-don't-know  _ smile, ending in his follow up  _ well-maybe-I-shouldn’t-so-please-beg-me-to-tell-you  _ smirk. World famous, it is. “Tell me right now or I’m stealin’ all your shit while you’re sleepin’.”

 

Davey laughs and tosses his teabag in the sink, sipping his tea daintily. “Jack and I propositioned him. So he’s plenty good-looking, if you’re worried about that.”

 

Race tries not to gape, he really does, but he’s still feeling a little like his eyes are going to pop out of his head.

 

Davey grins at him. “Your  _ face.” _

 

Race gapes harder. “...What did he say?”

 

“He said no, but Jacky sort of expected that,” Davey says knowingly, like this is a regular fucking day at the rodeo. “Our crew ‘n his may be on good terms, but not in mutual alliance territory yet. Or sex territory, clearly.” He takes another proud drink; only he could pull that expression off. (The man of a thousand faces.)

 

“You’re not fucking with me,” Race says faintly. “You had  _ better not _ be fucking with me on this, David Kelly-Jacobs, or else I’ll hire Alby to shoot out your kneecaps.”

 

“Albert’s too loyal for that.”

 

“Not if I tell him what for,” Race says savagely. “You know he’d do it in a  _ heartbeat _ if he knew. You know he would!” 

 

Davey raises one shoulder, and his lips twitch to one side. Race wants to whine at him until the end of time. “Fuck, what is  _ wrong _ with you people? Do you try to get every single person you meet in bed, including people in the top five of Los Santos’ fucking most wanted list? Is that your version of  _ date night?” _

 

“Not  _ every _ single person,” Davey points out, setting his mug of tea down and straightening the cuffs on his perfectly pressed blue button-down. “Also, our version of date night is slightly more illegal. We’re not boring.”

 

“Okay, first of all, now I’m offended I’m not the only one who got invited into the threesome,” Race replies, holding up a finger and sticking his bottom lip as far in Davey’s direction as he can manage. “Second of all,” and up goes another finger, “if you think a threesome is ever boring, your life is way too exciting.”

 

“‘Way too exciting,’” Davey repeats, laughing. Race steamrolls on, holding up finger number three.

 

_ “Third of all, _ David. And this may be the most worryin’ point,” Race says dramatically.

 

Davey raises his eyebrows, stirring his tea with his spoon. “Of course.”

 

“How the hell’m I supposed to seduce Spot Conlon, of all people, if he said no to two of the most attractive men currently livin’?” Race pleads the kitchen loudly, setting his coffee down on the marble countertop so hard it spills. “Oh, shit.”

 

Davey tsks at him and moves for the paper towels. “Oh,  _ honestly, _ Racer. Be careful with my things, please.”

 

“I lied, there’s a fourth point,” Race continues, holding up four fingers. “Four: what was all that bullshit about being faithful before? If you  _ literally _ were down to  _ agree on stuff _ with Spot Conlon. Also, not a sentence I ever thought I’d say.”

 

David throws a wad of paper towels at his head. “You’re cleanin’ that up. Also, Jack wanted to be there when I told you, but the opportunity was a little too good to pass up. He mighta thought you’d make fun.”

 

“Filthy liars, the lot of you,” Racetrack grumbles, setting his arms on the table dramatically and accidentally dipping his sleeve in the spilled coffee.

 

Albert’s shit-stomping boots clomp down the stairs dramatically. “Mornin’, assholes,” he announces to the kitchen. He isn’t wearing a shirt. “Woah, hey, mornin’, Racey. When’d you get in?”

 

Race looks up at him from where he’s mopping at the spill on the counter. “You--you saw me show up. You were there.”

 

Albert tilts his head to the side like a confused puppy. “I was?”

 

“Yeah,” Davey butts in, turning and giving Albert his best Mom Look. “You were pukin’ in my umbrella stand.”

 

Albert grins sheepishly and sits at the kitchen counter next to Racetrack. “Sorry, Davey. I was pretty drunk, wasn’ I.”

 

“That’s an understatement,” Davey says archly.

 

Despite the stain on his sleeve, Race is  _ stupidly _ happy to see Albert. He’s the weird deadbeat older brother to Davey and Jack’s Mom and Dad, and one of Race’s first friends after he left home. He’s the resident vehicle expert, thanks to his childhood on the dirt roads of rural Georgia, and Race, again, trusts him with his life. “Good to see you again, Beer Gut.”

 

Albert shoves him, a wolfish grin crossing his face. “Aw, shut the hell up, you freeloader. Start doin’ some real work around here, why don’t you.”

 

“I  _ am,” _ Race says proudly. “Guess who’s accompanyin’ Fake Manhattan on your latest and greatest job.”

 

Albert mock-gasps, placing an affronted hand to his heart.  _ “No.” _

 

“Yes,” Race challenges, flicking him in the temple. “Resident arm candy, I am. Supposed to be flirtin’ with one Spot Conlon--”   
  


“You  _ what.” _

 

“--to get him to collaborate with you all, if you’d just let me  _ finish, _ Albert--”

 

What follows is one of the pettiest slap fights Race has ever been a part of. (He would know. He’s been a part of a lot of them.) Albert keeps swatting at him, trying to fivestar him, and even as Davey yells at them to cut that shit out before they knock over the trash can, Race finds that he missed this.

 

Maybe not the fivestarring, but--everything else.

 

Davey admonishing them for being assholes. Albert--being an asshole. Race misses it. It’s an easy rhythm to fall back into.

 

He swallows hard, and finally picks up the paper towel Davey’d given him a while ago. Cleaning up his own messes isn’t something he has to learn anyway.


End file.
